


A Fling Flung Far Afield

by hollydermovoi, ShaneAndrew



Category: The Hobbit - All Media Types
Genre: Ace!Balin, F/F, Fem!Ori - Freeform, Gender or Sex Swap, fem!Dwalin - Freeform
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2013-07-01
Updated: 2013-09-24
Packaged: 2017-12-16 19:46:40
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 7
Words: 6,936
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/865906
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/hollydermovoi/pseuds/hollydermovoi, https://archiveofourown.org/users/ShaneAndrew/pseuds/ShaneAndrew
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In which the title of the story has nothing to do with the actual content - No flings, no flungings and no afieldings; just some good old Fem!Dwori by two friends who may be a wee bit on the insane side.</p><p>Dwalin has never really concerned herself with actively seeking a mate, though as a prolific warrior she is never wanting for suitors. What Dwalin never expected, however, was to fall axe-over-heels for her brother Balin's new scribe Ori - a young and quiet dwarrow with a secret passion for penning erotic novellas.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

Dwalin did not particularly dislike Balin, but she didn't exactly enjoy joining him for tea either. For one, her brother, who had no intent of following his own advice, was always counseling her to find a mate and settle down. "I'm sure _someone_ has maintained your interest," (and he only brought up her dalliances over tea, because he knew that Ma had raised her too polite to leave during tea) he'd say while sipping from his cup. "Or at the very least, has caught your eye."

Sure, many a dwarrow, male and female alike, had caught her eye. Many had chosen to partake in the pleasurable pastime of lovemaking with her, but she hadn't found the One. She'd only mentioned that to him the once before deciding to never do it again- his laughter, usually rare enough to make her preen like Thorin at his most ridiculous, was not a welcome reaction to her rarely shown romantic side, and she'd sat there beet red for the rest of the tea in silence. She'd refused to see him again for a month after that out of principle, and then there'd been the whole Dis fiasco (engaged to someone, but pregnant by someone else) and then the attempt to run the elves out of Mirkwood as Thorin's coronation present, and well, Dawlin hadn't seen her brother in a while.

Almost a century, in fact, and to tell the truth, she preferred it that way, but he'd finally cornered her, and had bribed her with the pomegranate tarts she had a fondness for, so here she was, sitting for tea, _again_ (and there was a noticeable lack of tarts, the traitor. Her brother possessed no loyalty).

But even despite the lamentable lack of tarts, this time was different.

This time, Balin had a _scribe._

...Well, to be fair, it wasn't all that unusual for Balin to have a scribe per se. It was just that he was employing this _particular_ scribe.

Dwalin might have choked on her tea, had she deigned to even sip it (she was still quite miffed about the noticeable deficit of the promised baked goods). Instead she sat staring at her elder brother, eyes wide and mouth all agape.

"You mean to tell me," she began, "That' ye've gone and hired yerself a wee _lass_ t'do yer scribework? I thought your usual fare was whatever strapping lad you could get yer wrinkled hands on."

Balin was smirking. If there was one thing Dwalin had surely not missed in their hundred or so years apart, it was her brother's smirking. When Balin smirked, empires tended to fall. It meant he knew something his sister did not, and it meant that he was scheming some mischief that relied on said ignorance.

"You look ever so parched, dear sister. Won't you have some tea?"

"Don't avoid the question, ye blasted old raisin. Why a lass, an' why now?"

"It is, as they say, the Right Time. And young Ori is just what I've been looking for. Her work is really quite remarkable; you should go introduce yourself and have a look at what she can do. Have her pen you a love-note or some such thing."

Ignoring the blush that was starting to stain her cheeks, Dwalin simply crossed her arms over her considerable chest. "Oh no you don't; yer not gettin' away from me that easy. Be a darling and answer my questions, won't you?"

"It was what I required. My last scribe left in favor of smithing to please his beloved, and truth be told I more often caught him in the act of pretending his quills were hammers and his parchment an anvil, and so was left with little calligraphy and a great deal of punctured, useless paper."

"And this lass, this Ori, just happened to show up?"

"She is of Erebor and though her family is not of the highest caliber, I respect her as an artist. When I put out word that I was wanting for a scribe, here she was not two hours later with a sheaf of her work in hand."

 _A go-getter, eh?_ Sure and it was an unusual thing for a woman to take up scribing for such an exalted member of the community; more often they would work for poets or harpers. Dwalin could admit, at least to herself, that she felt a bit of admiration for this mystery scribe. She'd always a soft spot for those that knew what they wanted and never hesitated in seeking to claim it.

That didn't mean she'd give her dratted brother the pleasure of falling so easily for whatever game he was playing. After all, he'd promised her tarts, hadn't he? She'd show him not to mess with her well- earned sweets. She took a gulp of her now lukewarm tea and fixed him with her most polite smile, the one she'd used when Thorin had decided to shave her head and only gotten half (she'd tinted his bath water so he was magenta for a sennight for that one)

"I've no doubt the wee lassie is... _gifted_ , b't she'll have to wait to show her work for another time." She stood, and bowed an exact quarter of an inch higher than was proper, smirking inwardly when Balin flushed at the affront. "G'day Mistress Ori," she called as she left the chambers. "I'd stay longer, but the laddies won't train themselves, and my brother has no tarts to keep me through training time." With a wave towards Balin and a saucy wink toward the door she suspected Ori to be spying through (and she was rewarded for her instincts by a muffled squeak), Dwalin excused herself.

She had some dwarrowlings to pound some sense into.

 


	2. Chapter 2

Ori was a quiet, dreamy lass, who enjoyed sitting near the window with some knitting and people to watch. If someone had told her that Balin, of the line of Fundin, would choose _her_ , of all dwarrows, to be his scribe, she'd have laughed herself silly. Sure, she liked to write, and both of her brothers had made admirous noises about her penmanship in the past, but they were her _brothers_. Family was _supposed_ to compliment one's craft, especially if it was a scholarly one, like penmanship. Too many dwarrows liked smithing, war-mongering, or mining. Those that liked the "softer arts" (a term she'd contest with pride- kitting and scribing were _not_ as easy as they looked) were prized, for they maintained the libraries, clothed the population, entertained children and fed the masses. There was even a special Artisans day, where those who found themselves possessive of a particular talent were paired with someone of a different talent to create a piece, with prizes awarded to the best (and worse) products. She'd always managed to place her team squarely in the middle, earning a reputation as someone who could use hand-spun yarn or words to fix even the most grievous of errors to something marketable. That reputation brought her enough business to contribute to their food and tax fund despite her brothers' grumbling, and she always had extra to set aside for herself. It was not exactly a _nice_ life, but they got by, and she was happy about it. And if she ever wished she had enough coin to buy herself an apprenticeship, well, that was her own business.

Everything had changed this year, for she'd been paired with a toymaker by the name of Bofur, a nice lad with a sunny disposition and a smile as wide as his brother Bombur's girth. Because of the similarity of their craft (she switched off every year, and this year she had knitting) the judges requested that she use both of her crafts, and the beautiful wood fire-drake with canvas wings on which she'd written as much of the history of Erebor as she could remember (it also possessed a knitted horde of treasure) had won them first prize.

One of the judges had bought it from them at a ridiculously enormous sum, and another had offered her a commission, and Balin had hired her on as an apprentice, which was unreal enough.

She'd _never_ expected to meet Balin's legendary sister, Dwalin. After all, all of Erebor knew that they were feuding, and that Dwalin hadn't spoken to Balin since the birth of Crown Prince Fili, so it was a huge surprise to come back from picking up more ink to find her idol sitting with her mentor and glaring at him over a cup of tea. She'd managed to sputter out a greeting before hastily making herself scarce, trying to ignore the fact that Dwalin seemed to hate her on sight, or at least the idea of her.

It was really quite lamentable, given that her first glimpse of the famed warrioress had left her feeling...well, rather flushed she would say. Flushed in all the hidden places in her body, and that meant trouble.

It might be due to Dwalin's astonishing height for a Dwarf (she was nearly a full head higher than Ori, who had a bit of a weakness for tall dwarrows), or the way her mere presence in a room commanded the utmost respect, or perhaps she was simply enamored of Dwalin's fine body, shown by simple and practical garb that nonetheless highlighted every sumptuous curve, every rock-hard muscle. Indeed, she was already fantasizing far too much about running her small, soft scribe's hands over such a body ('far too much' meaning 'any fantasizing at all').

But most of all, more than anything the young dwarrow had found herself struck most by Dwalin's voice. The rough, almost scratchy cadence of it nevertheless held a certain musical lilt, and had a way of rising and falling with such intensity of expression that was otherwise hidden by a stoic face that Ori could swear the warrioress was not so unflappably strong and unaffected by the world as she seemed. She had not been able to see Dwalin for the entire course of her meeting with her brother, but Ori had been listening at the keyhole, quick fingers nimbly working at some spare wool to keep her nerves in check. And beyond the fact that she'd found herself nearly swooning whenever Dwalin opened her mouth, she could swear she'd heard something like...intrigue behind her rough words. Intrigue and just a smidge of vulnerability.

Concentrating on that, on the flow of the Dwarf's voice as nothing else, Ori put her tongue between her teeth and set the quill back to her parchment.

 _A Long-Awaited Meeting_ was the name of this new piece. _as told by Lady Knittedaxe_ was the line written quickly and gracefully under the title, quill all but dancing over the cream-colored paper. 

Ori smiled a small, secret smile to herself as the words began their effortless cascade from her (admittedly a bit) heated mind and onto the parchment. She thanked Mahal that Dori was out yet at the market, teaching Nori the value of actually paying for their food. 

She was planning to be rather occupied with this particular work for some time yet. 


	3. Chapter 3

_Lady Knittedaxe_ was the most prolific writer of their time. _Everyone_ read his* stories, and no one, not even the King, knew his true identity. And if there was one thing Thorin _really_ didn't like, it was remaining in the dark. So, against the advice of most of his counsel (Balin included) he passed a law. Once Durin's Day passed, authors whose works focused on the intimate acts would no longer be allowed to remain anonymous.

For most authors, this wouldn't be a problem- most people who wrote about intimate acts were married, and though writing on such topics was not unheard of among unmarried dwarrows, most who published were men, and expected to have experience in the field. If Ori continued to publish under her own name, she'd be ruined. It had taken every ounce of Ori's self-control to not faint on the spot upon hearing the decree; she'd been taking some of her work to Balin for review and had happened to overhear the King telling his counsel and advisers of his plan. She'd halted outside the door of the chamber a moment, heart in her throat and knees suddenly knocking together and a terrible, fearful guilt rising inside her.

Were she discovered, she'd bring nothing but shame to her family when they'd worked so long and so hard to get by and be at least mildly respected in the community. Worse, if she were revealed, she would surely lose her position as Royal Scribe. Durin's Day was not more than a fortnight away and she'd not a clue as to what to do next.

Surely she couldn't reveal herself, but knew that she could no sooner stop writing as stop breathing. She _knew_ she was talented; she'd often heard others praising her writing (though they were unaware of the fact that the scandalous stories had been born of her hand). Trying to stop her fierce need to create would be akin to trying to dam a river with cotton.

She would just have to stop publishing, she'd realized the night of the decree. Feeling crushed and cold, she'd looked at the two chapters she had of _A Long-Awaited Meeting_ and felt betrayed, somehow. Here she'd just barely begun what was (she felt) her greatest work yet, and now she could never share it. Could never entertain the fever-dream of the object of her affections finding it, reading it and somehow _knowing._ Knowing they were meant to be together.

Cursing under her breath, she flung the pages away from herself and curled up on her thin mattress. Stared up at the night sky through the cloth over the open hole that served as window, and wished fervently for a miracle.

Little did she know, the Dwarf of whom she wrote about was in a similar piteous funk.

Dwalin stood just inside the main gate of the Mountain, a mug of mead held firmly in her tattooed hand. _That Elven-headed arse,_ she thought darkly (the most grievous insult she could think of, considering his dislike of all things Elven) _Doesn't he see he's going to ruin everything?_ She _liked_ not knowing who the Lady was, it added to the allure of the stories- that whatever lass or laddie published didn't brag over their considerable admirous throng was huge- she loved her people, but they were often too proud for her taste, bragging on her behalf about her deeds in battle. _Romanticizing_ it, of all arse-headed things, and Thorin was the worst of all.

She took a long pull from her tankard, letting the heavy sweetness of the brew soothe over her ragged nerves. So she was a holy terror on the battleground. So what? Why was that the only thing people ever seemed to see in her? It was all they talked of, all they praised, and every suitor she'd ever had the displeasure to be courted by had spoken of little else besides her prowess as a warrior. 

Not once had any of them noticed her wit, her sense of humor, her little quirks that made up the rest of who she was - being a warrioress _was_ a huge part of it, but it was _not_ all she was. Not once had anyone ever commented on her love of reading, on her tendency to idly tap her fingers together when she was confused, her indomitable love of all things sweet in flavor. No one, all her life, had ever really seen her for who she was. And no one, it seemed, had or would ever make the effort. 

It was one of the reasons she was so enamored of Lady Knittedaxe's stories: whoever the author was, he or she very clearly had a firm grip on what it felt like to never be known for who you really were - it was a common theme that Dwalin had had no trouble pinpointing. It had spoken quite deeply to her, and she had found herself very eagerly awaiting word of any new works the Lady might have published. 

Those stories helped the Dwarf feel like somebody _understood_ her, really knew what it was like for her to go through this constant agony. And now Thorin, pompous idiot that he was, was demanding to know the Lady's identity and in the process, quite possibly ruining Dwalin's last chance at feeling like at least one person in the world knew how she felt, and more importantly, wanted her to know that she was not alone.

Curiosity was praise worthy, but he had gone too far. It was time to teach him a lesson he'd _never_ forget.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> *pronoun usage here is correct- they assume that the author is male, hiding his identity under a feminine title (because they're idiots). If they hadn't assumed this, chances are they would've found Ori by now


	4. Chapter 4

Ori hustled along the winding corridors of the Mountain, inwardly cursing her decision to sleep in just five more minutes that morning - 'five more minutes' having quickly become 'how did it get so _bright_ outside and why do I feel so _rested_ '; one look at the weathered, worn grandfather clock in the corner had nearly had her shrieking in fright as she realized she had ten minutes to make a twenty-five minute trek up to the Mountain and Balin's offices. It was the reason why she was now short of breath and red in the face.

Really, she had no one to blame but herself. It had been her and her alone that had decided to attempt to finish her final - and likely most important - work in the mere space of a fortnight. As such she'd been staying up far later than any sane dwarrow would, trying frantically to get the whole of the story down to the best of her ability before King Thorin's decree all but destroyed her career as a writer. It was also why she now carried her current draft of _A Long-Awaited Meeting_ on top of her day's assignments: any spare moment she got, no matter how brief, was dedicated to her last great literary venture.

So preoccupied was she with the whirlwind of thought _(ooh, 'whirlwind of thought', that's a lovely evocative phrase that is, I'll have to work that in somehow)_ presently storming through her mind, she barely registered that the doors to Balin's offices were firmly shut, much less the figure that sat just to the side of said door. After all, Ori was rather absorbed in reading over what she had of the chapter she was currently working on (the one with the first, shall we say, mano-a-mano encounter [or, rather more accurately, mano-a-breasto] between the Lady and the object of her affections; it was a steamy scene at any rate); as a result she collided quite firmly with the oak doors that remained most recalcitrantly un-open.

"Oof!" A deep chuckle rubbed over her spine as she stumbled backwards, a paper or two fluttering to the ground as she brought up a hand to clutch at her throbbing nose.

"Mayhaps ye'd best watch where ye're goin', lassie."

Muttering language she usually reserved for her solitary bouts of anger, she aimed a fierce glare at the figure who sat so near to hand - and felt herself freeze as she realized just _who_ it was she was glaring at.

"In a bit of a hurry, aren't yeh?" Dwalin returned her momentary glare with an easygoing grin and a raised brow.

"I - I'm so s- I'm afraid I cannot chat just now, Mistress Dwalin. I am already disastrously late to meet with Master Balin about my work, and I really can't dawdle just now so I'll th-thank you not to make unhelpful comments!" Outwardly quivering, inwardly screaming _LET ME LOVE YOU_ , she gave the barest incline of her head possible and quickly stole inside the chamber. Dwalin simply smiled deeper and shook her head. The wee thing was certainly a sight when she was harried and flustered as three broody hens.

Shrugging, her eye was caught by the few pieces of parchment that had come to rest just at the edge of her chair. Interest caught, she swiped them off of the cold stone and - her mouth dropped open as she caught sight of a few key words towards the top of the bottom sheet: _Knittedaxe, p34._ A startled yelp from inside alerted her, and she had just enough time to stuff the paper down her shirt when Ori came dashing out of her brother's office, face ashen.

"Ye alrigh' lassie?" she inquired, amused. She had a strong suspicion of who had frightened the wee lass so, and she was not disappointed.

"Th-the K-king, " Ori stuttered.

"What abou' th' King, lassie?"

"He- he's in there, with Master Balin, like 'tis _normal_ t'have a King over for a cuppa and-" She stopped, and blinked rapidly, as if trying to clear her vision, or remember something correctly. In a much quieter voice, she muttered. "He was wearing a _dress._ "

Dwalin couldn't help it- she roared with laughter, stopping only because Ori looked so indignant. "Sorry lassie, b't ye see- tha' be th' very reason he be visitin'. _I'm_ the one who switched all his clothes out fer 'is sister's." Ori's dumbfounded expression set her off again. She couldn't help it- the wee lassie was just too _precious._

She was trying to regain control over her mirth when Thorin flounced out of Balin's office, majestic stride somewhat hindered by the pink ruffled gown he was wearing. His fierce scowl only caused her to laugh harder, and he rolled his eyes before turning towards Ori and curtseying to her (and Dwalin noted with much glee that Thorin had a very fetching curtsy- which he ought to, seeing as Dwalin had taught him how to execute one herself). Ori just about fell over in surprise, before curtseying deeply in return.

"My apologies Mistress Ori," the King rumbled. "Had I known that Balin had taken on a new apprentice, I would've sent notice ahead- and honestly Dwalin, need your brother be so _vexing?_ He is ever too indulgent of your pranks. May I at least inquire as to _why_ you've switched all my clothes with Dis'? You _know_ the Hobbit delegation is coming in from the Shire for talks of how to trade their gift with agriculture for our gift with mining- I cannot hold the talks in this. The Hobbits are a 'proper folk', according to that blasted Wizard, and Mahal only knows what they will think if they see me attired thusly."

Fixing Thorin with the most serious glare in her arsenal, Dwalin uttered two words, causing the King to groan in exasperation. "Lady Knittedaxe."


	5. Chapter 5

Ori hoped against hope that the sheer surprise she felt did not show on her features, shining like a beacon in the night, calling for aid. Luckily for her, even if it did, the King and Dwalin seemed too preoccupied with their posturing to take any notice.

 _Dwalin knew who she was?_ Well, not her per se, but she knew of the Lady. She knew her _work_. And if her outlandish prank on the King was any indication...well, Ori could only deduce that her idol actually _liked_ her stories.

It took all of her self-control to not swoon on the spot.

"What do you _mean_ you did it for the Lady? You do realize she's not an _actual_ person right? She's just a shade some charlatan has taken on to vex me, and wring money out of the commoners."

Dwalin surged to her feet, drawing herself up to her impressively full height - she was nearly five feet tall, and stood a clear four inches above her King.

"Just a shade? Some _charlatan?"_ Her cheeks began to tinge an unhealthy shade of puce as her glare darkened like the mines of Moria. Ori pressed herself against the wall in an attempt to sink into the mountain itself. Dwalin spoke as if it were an actual _lady_   whose honor was being impugned upon, not Ori's own pen name.

This made Ori insensibly happy. She was even more thrilled when Dwalin started to compliment her.

"Her stories are nothin' short of remarkable, and they 'ave more depth than this very Mountain! They 'ave -" she had to stop a moment, less she confess how much she really connected with the Lady's writings - Thorin did not need to know that they were essentially the only validation she got in who she was.

"...they- they 'ave much to offer the lit'rary community, Y'r Grace," she amended, sweeping a mock bow. "Ye only fail t'see it through that fool pride of yers."

Thorin's sputtering and fuming (Ori could practically _see_ the steam coming out of his ears) was duly interrupted by Balin, who bestowed an indulgent if mildly irritated glance upon his sister and his cousin.

"You're both very pretty. Ori- there ye are lass, I've been meaning to tell you, you aren't needed today. Run home, or to the library if you'd prefer." He paused and dug out a coin which he handed to her. "This is for being the best of lassies and putting up with those two buffoons. Dwalin, I expect you to be here later for tea. Thorin," and here his smile widened to a full fledged grin. "You look very fetching in that shade of pink lad. Be careful as you're escorting Ori home-you may start a new trend."

Ori was just about to protest- the King had no business escorting the likes of her anywhere, but the door was already closed. Grumbling, Thorin took hold of her hand and started walking faster than she'd thought he could in the cumbersome dress. After five terrifying minutes of being alone with him, Dwalin was suddenly on her other side.

"Ye go off an' make some other useless proclamation; _I'm_ most suited to escorting the lassie to her destination."

With a scoff, Thorin pulled a fan out somewhere, thwacked Dwalin with it, and proceeded to fan himself in a most imperious fashion. "I think you will find that as King, _I_ am more qualified to be her escort, thank you."

Barely listening to the drivel around her, Ori found herself faintly flushing at their continuous use of the word 'escort' - her debut work, the story that had launched her to unexpected fame was none other than _the Lesser-Known yet still Exceedingly Scandalous Adventures of a Proper Escort_ (this was before she'd learned the value of concise titles). Needless to say, the escorting that took place in her story was not nearly as innocent as the escorting taking place in the present moment.

"What, like _yer_ the most qualified fan of the Lady too? Piss off, ye great bloomin' numpkin."

Ori finally dredged up the courage to squeak "So you're both fans of Lady Knittedaxe then?"

For a second, the King's ice blue eyes were a little too focused on her, almost like he'd forgotten she was there (and she almost suspected he had) "Fans. Dwalin, the lass has the impertinence to call us _fans_. We're _devotees_."

"Which is j'st one of yer high falutin' words fer fans."

Thorin rolled his eyes with royal impatience. "Just because I've a more advanced vocabulary than your...esteemed self is no reason to get your, as they say, 'knockers in a twist'."

"It's kn-knickers, Your Majesty." Ori was redder than a sunburned beet at this point, but Thorin paid her no mind.

"We have arrived!" Gently disengaging Ori's hand from it's place at the crook of his elbow, he waved in the general direction of the homestead parts of the Mountain. "Off you go then, Mistress Ori."

Just for a moment, Dwalin thought she saw a flash of something...wrong in the young dwarrow's eyes. A touch of shame, tempered by an odd defiance.

"This...this is no' where ye live, is it lass?" Her voice was gentle, but Ori seemed only to draw further into herself.

"No." The word was little more than a whisper. "But, but I know how to get home from here," she hastened to reassure them. "You n-needn't trouble yourselves, you've been so kind, I'll be fine -" she was babbling now and she knew it, so she took a moment to stop herself. More than anything, more than the intimidation she felt in the King's presence, she didn't think she could bear knowing that Dwalin, or anyone else that she so fervishly admired, knew that she lived in squalor. She shuffled her papers restlessly, and did not meet their eyes.

"But if you don't live here, where do you live? Down amongst the _Men_?" Thorin chuckled at his own joke.

Ori felt her eyes brighten and her jaw go hard. "Yes, in fact, I do. Good day." With that she turned stiffly on her heel and made to make her way out of the mountain.

Dwalin barely waited until the lass was out of earshot before snatching the fan from Thorin's slackened grip and smacking it smartly across the king's prominent forehead.

"Ye bleedin' _idiot!"_


	6. Chapter 6

"Pardon me, miss..."

Ori looked up from the most _enthralling_ tale of far off places, daring sword fights and a Lady willing to use her fingers to pleasure her handmaiden into orgasm to smile at the polite inquiry. Her eyes widened, because standing right in front of her was a _Hobbit_. Must be one of the dignitaries visiting to consult the King on agriculture, she surmised.

"How can I help you Mister...?"

"Baggins. Bilbo Baggins. Please, call me Bilbo. And you are...?"

"Ori, daughter of Vori, if it please you, sir."

"Very well, Ori. Were you aware that there's a Dwarf-"

"Beggin' your pardon Mr. Bilbo, but my people prefer to be referred to as dwarrows."

"A dwarrow then, in a rather unflattering orange dress lurking behind that pillar, and that she...or he? Hard to tell with your people, as they all have beards, but they have been watching you this entire time."

"Oh yes. That's the King. He's been followin' me for _days_. I believe he's under the impression that he's being stealthy."

Bilbo's soft brown eyes went wide as his lips quirked a bit; he glanced back at where Thorin was pretending to adjust the lace 'round his sleeves and flushing under the Hobbit's scrutiny. The ruddy tinge to his cheeks clashed just awfully with the persimmon-colored gown, but Bilbo found the sight to be rather hopelessly adorable. Then something Ori had said clicked, and he turned back to her.

" _That's_ Thorin Oakenshield? That's the King of Erebor?"

"Sure as the sunlight," she said easily. "He's is not usually clothed that way, there was an...incident that caused one of the other dwarrows to switch out all his clothes for his sister's." A small smile played at her lips then, remembering exactly why Dwalin had played such a ridiculous prank on their rather ridiculous monarch.

The Hobbit chuckled "T'be honest, I thought they were pulling our legs the other day when they introduced him as such. But why ever is he following _you_?"

"I daresay he's trying to find out where I live. He won't though, you know. Find out." She hunched in a bit on herself then, the action immediate and instinctive. "You see, I am the Royal Scribe and...well, let's just say he likes to poke that broad nose of his where it don't belong." Carefully tucking a finger in her place in the little book ( _the Pearl in the Clam_ by Mme. Chastity, one of her favorite erotic authors), she nodded to Bilbo before turning to take her leave.

"Just - just a moment, Miss Ori. I am not familiar with the Mountain, and it took a _lot_ of convincing to get people to point me to the Library. I have no clue how to get back to my rooms from here. If it's not too much trouble, don't want to impose, I wonder if you would not mind giving me a little tour?"

Ori hesitated, but decided it would be safe enough. After all, he was a Hobbit and she'd likely never see him again. "Alright," she said slowly. "I need...I need to drop my things at h-home first, and it is in Dale, so a tour of the Mountain will have to wait for a tad... ."

"Oh any help you're willing to give would be _most_ welcome. Erm- What of the King? He will likely follow you, you realize."

Ori smiled to herself then, gathering her resolve over her inward quivering. "Never you fear on my account. I've got more than a few tricks up me sleeve."

 

 

Dwalin watched the girl go, the Halfling following close behind with a look of bemused intrigue on his face. She herself was wondering just what the wee scribe's story was, and more importantly, how she had come to be in possession of what looked to be a draft of Lady Knittedaxe's next big work. Perhaps she edited for the Lady, or was the one who wrote out the stories whilst the Lady dictated to her?

_Perhaps I might ask 'er. Perhaps she wouldnae mind talkin' t'me._

She huffed a bit of a mirthless grin at the thought, shook her head at her own foolishness. Why should the lassie talk to her? It seemed that every time they encountered one another the younger dwarrow could not wait to be rid of her company. Privately, she could admit that the thought of Ori finding her very being so repugnant stung more than it had a right to - why should it matter what the chit thought of her? After all, they really knew nothing of each other and came, if her hunch was correct, from wildly different worlds.

A hunch that she hoped to find support for today, which is why she was quietly following the lass. Ori and the Hobbit slipped quickly from path to path, the one glancing everywhere at once (probably trying to shake off Thorin, the pompous fool) and the other seemingly content with the sudden secrecy. More than once Dwalin found her thoughts straying from where her target might be headed to the target herself, all soft curves and smooth, un-scarred skin, and warm brown eyes that lit with a fair fire when she was riled.

Now where had that thought come from? Her usual focusing abilities seemed to have been left by the wayside, until she saw Ori stop dead in her tracks, whisper frantically to the Hobbit, gesturing firmly, before suddenly taking off at a run toward - where? She did not seem to be heading towards any part of Erebor that Dwalin knew of.

An orange blur caught her eye then- Thorin had picked up his skirts and preparing to sprint after her.

_Oh no, ye don't._

Acting on instinct, the warrior surged forward from the doorway she'd been lurking in and headed straight for the Hobbit. Her timing was just so, and she had to fight off rather a lot of laughter at the look on her King's face as he saw Dwalin, recognized her, all but skidded to a flailing halt and tried frantically to neither trip nor mar his sister's dress.

"Yer Majesty. Fancy meetin' ye here. Might I introduce- ?" She glanced at the Hobbit, who muttered his name to her quickly (though his eyes were fixed on the orange-gowned, red-faced Dwarf before them).

"Might I introduce this here 'obbit, Mister Bilbo Boggins?"

"Baggins. And we've met before. A pleasure to make your acquaintance once again, Your Majesty."

"Dwalin." Puffing, fan clutched to his broad chest, the dwarrow fought to keep a glare from his face. "What an _unexpected_ surpise _indeed_." Trapped by societal convention, Thorin pulled a stiff bow for the bemused Hobbit. "Thorin Oakenshield, at your service Mr Baggins. Might I enquire as to how you've been finding your stay in Erebor?"

Whilst the two of them exchanged polite nothings, for some reason avoiding each others' gazes directly, Dwalin breathed a small sigh of relief. She hoped she'd been able to buy little Ori some time, and some privacy- she'd find her later. And she'd no intention of having Thorin, nor anyone else, be privy to the questions she hoped to put to the lassie.


	7. Chapter 7

Whilst the two dwarrows and a rather bemused Hobbit did what they could to break the impossibly awkward silence that kept lurking about the air between them, Ori scampered to the place she and Bilbo had decided to meet, in the highly likely event they ended up separated. The temple to the Arkenstone.

She knew the lore backwards and forwards and nearly sideways at this point; it was the one story told with ever increasing pomp and circumstance in the schools. Two kings past, under King Thror, the miners had delved so deep into the Mountain that they'd discovered its Heart - the glimmering, rainbow-faceted jewel that Thror had immediately taken as a sign that his right to rule was divine. But upon his eager attempt to pry loose the Arkenstone, the very Mountain itself had shrieked like a wraith. His son Thrain, far less contaminated with the gold-sickness than his aging father, coaxed his father instead to build a shrine, a grand temple to the Heart of the Mountain around its resting-place. All had come to pay homage and gaze speechlessly at this prize, Elf, Man, Hobbit and dwarrows alike. And all had recognized its infinite worth, its unshakable importance to the greatest Dwarf-kingdom in Middle Earth.

What Ori didn't know, what was never mentioned in the lore, was that this prestigious temple had come with a steep price- it had been built on the remains of the homes of dwarrows such as Ori's mother and others like her, ones who were at the absolutely lowest rung of the social hierarchy. They had been cast out of the Mountain to make room for the temple, for Thror's love of treasure had become too fierce: he'd come to treasure the Arkenstone above his people, deeming it more valuable than those that had lived closest to its resting-place. Soon the sickness spread farther and farther into his mind like poison, driving him to insanity. At the time of his death, he'd allowed no one but himself to even be near to the temple. Thorin, young as he'd been, took his grandfather's insanity as a sign that treasure was perhaps not worth as much as it was proclaimed to be, and set about making good on his agreements with the Men, Elves and Hobbits; trading gold for knowledge and goods.

Ori knew none of this, nor had she ever really questioned why she was made to live outside of the Mountain, away from the majority of her people. Only those who had known the life before questioned this injustice, but were above all a prideful people and as such no longer talked about such a slight.

If Ori _had_ known the true legacy of the temple, she _never_ would have asked that the Hobbit meet her there.

She waited in the shadows, surreptitiously pulling out parchment and quill to jot down a few notes for her story. Until, that is, she heard Bilbo hoot twice like a barn owl and once like a brown owl. That is, if both owls were suffering from either a serious  head cold or were, in fact, not owls at all but rather a Hobbit that had had his toes trodden on by a mule.

Grinning at the absurdity of it and valianty trying (and failing) to smother her giggles, she tucked away her papers and stepped forward to see the Halfling looking rather sheepish, if hopeful that he'd done well.

"Don't feel bad, Mr. Baggins. Y'did remarkably well." She was lying through her teeth, but he just looked so very earnest that she couldn't help herself.

"I'm afraid I'm no expert on wildlife," Bilbo said with an apologetic grin. "Now, if you'd requested me to impersonate one of my rather horrendous relations, Lobelia Sackville-Baggins, I could of course perform admirably but I rather doubt you'd want your ears assaulted by such a harpy."

"No matter." She turned to face where the Arkenstone sat high in the East-facing wall of the temple. "Well, here's what's likely the grandest part of the Mountain. Feast your eyes, then."

"It is lovely," Bilbo hedged after a moment. "But I was wondering...have you no gardens, no greenery in Erebor? This time of year's just splendid for growing blackberries as well as many a wonderful flower and herb."

Ori blinked at him blankly for a moment. "We've, ah - that is to say - we've a lovely selection of metal flowers? Our craftsmanship is unequaled, you know. Besides, our biggest crop at the moment is bacon. My people are not ones that particularly enjoy greens, I'm afraid, though we do recognize the need for them." She paused for a moment, feeling something more was required of her. "I prefer chips, meself."

Bilbo grimaced. "Well, if these talks go as we're hoping, your King shall be incorporating rather a lot more green into this fine Mountain of yours. After all, you've never had my Grandmama's boysenberry pie and that's just terrible."

"Sure and I'll take your word for it," Ori said impishly. She extended her elbow then, her grin deepening to show off her dimples at the Hobbit's confused look. "'Tis just me arm, Mr. Baggins."

"Oh please, your King is already so distressingly formal. Call me Bilbo."

"Only if you promise I won't need to be eatin' any green food," she said with feeling. "Come now, take my elbow and I'll give you that tour you've been wanting."

 


End file.
